“You haven’t heard yet?”
“Heard what? Please tell me about how happy Clark Layton is. I care so much. Really.”
“Is there any need for the attitude?”
“Alright, alright, I’m sorry. Tell me how your speech went.”
“If you would stop being so damned sarcastic, I’d tell you I never got to make a speech.”
“Huh?”
“Clark called it off. Ditched Constance at the altar. Well, not quite the altar, but a couple of hours before.”
“What? So… Clark isn’t married?”
Arthur raises an eyebrow, matching my own. Teddy is still talking as I hand the phone back to Arthur. I close the lid on my laptop and spend the remaining hour of the journey back to London in silence.
It’s seven forty-five by the time we stop outside the modern glass office block on the south side of the River Thames that houses SP, amongst other businesses. I wish Arthur goodnight then pat the roof of the Mercedes, telling Duncan, my regular driver, to move. I glance at Tower Bridge, glowing against the darkness of the late-autumn night, before heading into the building.
The night concierge looks up from the reception desk. “Good evening, Miss Cross.”
I smile in acknowledgement then slip into a lift and ride to the top floor. At one time, SP had three floors in the building, but after 2011 I had to make cuts. It was a brutal start to taking over my father’s business, but it had to be done. Now I’m in talks with the building manager about leasing a second floor, but it’s taken almost four years to get here.
All but two desks in the open-plan space are empty as I make my way to my office at the end of the floor. Closing the door behind me, I hang my trench coat on a stand and dump my bag on the sofa. I’m pleased there’s hardly anyone here. I need to get my head straight without anyone vying for my attention. I pour myself a glass of sparkling water and take it to the wall of windows where I can look across the Thames to the Tower of London.
Clark Layton didn’t get married.
I hate that he’s thrown me, messed with my head. It’s irrational. I can’t stand the arsehole. So why did my stomach leap when Teddy told me the gossip?
Constance was too good for him, anyway. She’s high-maintenance, from what I hear, but the few times I’ve come across her, she seemed nice. Clark, on the other hand, is anything but nice. He’s a player. He uses women and ditches them at the first sign of an emotional connection. Frankly, I’m surprised they lasted a year and a half.
I stare at the water in my glass. H2O is just not going to cut it, but I do generally have a rule about not drinking before Thursday in the week, unless it’s for business networking. I turn on my laptop and check my calendar for the coming days — mostly meetings, but an appointment at Amanda Wakeley on Wednesday night. I’m picking up a new evening gown for an industry dinner in London on Thursday. I attend every year, fake-smiling through boredom for the most part, but this year I’ve stupidly agreed to make a speech. A speech to hundreds of men who all think their dick is the biggest dick in the world? Sure, no problem.
I’m not even fooling myself.
When I shut down at nine thirty, I change into running gear, plug Bruno Mars’ “Locked Out of Heaven” into my ears and head home to Shad Thames, not allowing myself to think of work or Clark Layton. This is my time of day.